The Soul in the Sarcophagus
by Skole
Summary: Things are falling apart - something has to give. An entry into Thnx4theGum's Hiatus Challenge: More than 1500 words. Hannah must go. No dialogue. *Spoilers for Season 6* Please review on your way out :


**The Soul in the Sarcophagus**

**Disclaimer:** I'm posting fanfic here, people - this means that I have no rights or claims over the rightful owners of BONES.

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**A/N: This is a piece written for the Hiatus Challenge, with the gauntlet being thrown down on Twitter by the exceedingly talented Thnx4theGum. The rules are as follows: **

**The story must be 1500 words or more. **

**Hannah Burley must go. **

**No dialogue can be used in the story. (Ah, Gummy, I love a challenge).**

**.**

**Warning: There are spoiler themes in this story for Season 6. There is also a dark homage to the Elizabeth Barrett Browning poem 'How do I love thee?" (Sonnet 43). This story is dedicated to my BONES pal Brainysmrfs, because your namesake became the lynchpin that made it all pull together.**

* * *

It was another long night in Limbo for Temperance Brennan. With case-related work on track and no inspiration, or inclination, to work on her latest manuscript, the old bones called her. The siren call of her first love, her passion; and if she was indeed going to live the life that she expected, it could well be her last. People with fulfilling lives had been dedicated to less, right? Those nameless bones, given time and attention, would offer up their truth to her, freely under the application of pure science. It was a more certain truth than any hope that devoting her time and attention to any man might contribute to her happiness. So she returned to a simpler joy, with less tangible rewards, unfettered by the uncomfortable and emotionally fraught challenges of a relationship.

He had moved on. If returning with the photo and accompanying hyperbolic myocardial infarction analogy were not enough to support his assertion, Hannah's arrival had since added a significant weight of evidence. The woman was as cloyingly sweet as the figs from their fornicating tree; what was not to like? Smart, pretty, physically and verbally demonstrative… She spilled over to invade everywhere between the cracks of the relationship that was, that had been, that could have been. Booth had been chipping away at the mortar of Brennan's protective wall for years. The appearance of Hannah put a stop to that, and the displacement of his affections set Brennan on a mission to shore up her walls; to provide shelter for herself as she continued on her quest to live the life that she expected.

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The trouble with living the life that one expects, is that while everyone else around you moves on, you risk being left out on the fringe, as those things which you once had in common with people around you diminish and dissipate. For Brennan, she accepted this as entropy and confirmation of the flawed ephemeral nature of love. Thus, the depth and breadth and height of her capacity to love was re-interred within her old sarcophagus, decorated with the flying colours of her intellectual achievements and the golden highlights of her outstanding talents. Wrapping her hurts in the linen bandages of rationality, she did not realise that that which she had let go had changed her irrevocably. Her heart was actually more open than she knew, or was prepared to admit without risking harm to what Booth had now. He appeared to have exactly what he needed now; that which she protested she could not give. Those first weeks of restless emotional chafing within her safe sarcophagus failed to resolve, as her re-interred heart and soul churned in confinement. She permitted herself to feel some measure of regret, and then threw herself into work, re-dedicating herself to her old cause with a passion.

The trouble with dedicating yourself to a cause, old or new, is that it is very poor substitute for a friend. The benefits of a solo quest can only realised through countless hours of thankless work. The bones in Limbo didn't bring her coffee, pester her to take a break, drag her off to The Diner, cajole her into drinks at The Founding Fathers, or make sure that she kept reasonable working hours. Many hours of intense focus, minimal rest and insufficient sustenance eventually fragmented her diurnal pattern. With normal sleep and waking patterns obliterated, she worked until she was too fatigued to process anything simpler than a primal urge to sleep, or eat. Sometimes she would manage to get a cab home, but more often than not, it was the office couch, or cradling her head upon her arms for a short time, her sleep deprived body folded over a cold steel workbench.

The trouble with sleep deprivation lay in her dreams. Her overtaxed body and brain, desperate for critical REM sleep made the dreams happen. She didn't recall any dreams of Booth, thanks to some shred of control clinging in the vestiges of her rational mind. The only dream that she ever recalled was the one of Hannah. Those dreams never failed to wake her in a cold sweat.

The trouble with dreams is that they are a subconscious function. Not subject to rationality. Not subject to control. Temperance Brennan came to loath her dreams.

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The dreams started with a murder victim on the forensic platform. Found in various states of decomposition, in various locations, by various people - the variety ended there. The victim was always Hannah. Thankfully she was never found by Booth, even Brennan's subconscious mind would not permit him to suffer directly in her dreams...

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Hannah was found in a New York landfill, her skull crushed by the locking mechanism of a Mercedes Coupe.

Hannah was found wrapped in chicken-wire at the bottom of a pond, with Booth's dog tags around her neck; the pulped remains of a best-selling Temperance Brennan novel wedged in her skeletal hand.

Hannah was found buried in a shallow garden grave, bludgeoned to death with a Bakerlite telephone.

Hannah was found burning on a rooftop, a Misericord jammed into her brainstem via her external auditory canal.

Hannah was found attached to an anchor, wrapped up with blood-red tape that declaimed 'FBI line - Do Not Cross'.

Hannah was found in the sunken wreck of the 'Temperance', off the coast of Aruba, her bones entwined around Sully's.

Hannah was found decomposing in the trunk of a silver Aston Martin.

Hannah was found in a crushed under the stands in a school gymnasium, with a Brainy Smurf figurine jammed in her airway.

Hannah was found baked into the World's Largest Meatloaf, her eyes substituted by hard-boiled eggs.

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For an agonising period of days which could have been nights, and nights that could have been days; Brennan was tortured by her subconscious in her sleep, and by her excellent memory recall of the bizarre dreams in waking hours.

Life was not all about Limbo, or the Lab. Brennan ventured out, using a pre-determined schedule, interacting with her peers, knowing it was necessary to prevent their needless protestations of concern. She even went out once for a drink with Andrew Hacker, but ditched him over their entree when he told her she was getting too thin, and that she should eat more. There was only one man that could get away with a comment like that, and seeing as he hadn't made it yet, Andrew was getting dumped before she ended up getting arrested for kicking Booths' Bosses' Boss in the testicles.

She even met with Hannah for coffee some mornings, deliberately avoiding times when she knew that Booth would be free to join them. Brennan's coffee came to taste like caffeinated ashes, she added sugar and it made no difference anymore; shaking her faith at a molecular level. She sat across from the beautiful blonde woman, a polite smile fixed on her face, as her subconscious memory overlaid the slideshow of gruesome death masks from her dreams; while Hannah's decomposing ragged lips sipped at her latte oblivious.

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* * *

It was a morning just like this one when Booth got the call and headed over to The Diner. Brennan had caught two twenty-minute snatches of sleep on the previous night. Her reflection in the mirror screamed stress and fatigue, but today she had a legitimate excuse. Everyone at the Lab looked ragged with worry today. Heather Taffett was launching her appeal. Sat across from Hannah at The Diner, Brennan covered a startled reaction with a sip of coffee, as her mind tried to trick her eyes into seeing Hannah spreading preserves over a slice of toast with a bloodied Misericord.

Booth barrelled in through the front doors of The Diner, his face fixed in his _'we have a case' _expression. Brennan sat up straighter in her seat with interest, only half listening now to Hannah talking about a Whitehouse staff scandal in progress. He took the seat next to Brennan, briefly acknowledging his girlfriend with a grin. His news related to a case, but he told her she wouldn't like what he had to say next. His tone suggested Brennan was going to take this personally, so she braced herself.

As Booth delivered the bad news, Hannah watched the control slip in her friend, then watched on. Brennan's graceful poise deflated, her normally confident facade trembled as she looked to Booth in a moment of clear distress. The Gravedigger had been shot outside the Federal Courthouse. Taken out by a sniper. Someone called Max Keenan was a person of interest and Brennan calmly voiced agreement that it was a reasonable assumption under the circumstances.

Booth supported his partner by placing a hand on her upper arm, not taking his eyes off Brennan, who was now staring at the face of her Rolex watch, until she composed herself enough to raise her head to meet his gaze again. The resulting combination of physical and eye contact was intense when it happened. Hannah sat back in her chair, momentarily stunned by the intimate moment; seeing something unexpected, yet completely obvious now she had witnessed it with her own eyes. Booth had a special connection with his scientist partner, she knew that...it was why they worked so well together. They loved each other, that much was clear; even though they both categorically stated that their relationship was not a sexual one. Hannah believed them. She was a good enough journalist to have asked the right questions of each of them, innocuously and individually, over the past few weeks to corroborate their stories. There was some deeper connection that she couldn't name.

Now feeling very much like the third wheel that Brennan usually was, Hannah Burley wondered why. What was wrong with him? What was wrong with her? What the hell was she doing in the middle of this?

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Hannah's smartphone chimed as her editor sent an e-mail requesting her immediate presence. A shooting at the Federal Courthouse was big news - but victim, the Gravedigger apparently had connections on Capitol Hill before she had been convicted of murder, so it was time to rehash the old footage and pull together a solid piece to release as the final chapter in the Gravedigger Saga. The Whitehouse was already working on damage control, distancing themselves from the political fallout around the security breach that had permitted a shooting in the heart of D.C.'s seat of law and order. She needed to get to the office, because she had a lead on the suspect. A tiny edge on her competitors, not a scoop! The name would be plastered all over the news by someone soon enough, so why not her?

Moments later, Booth's phone rang. He had to take Brennan to the scene; something about retrieval of skull fragments to confirm the Gravedigger's ID and confirm the trajectory of the kill-shot. The Anthropologist pulled herself together patting his hand platonically, the boundary between them firmly re-ensconced in the realm of _'just partners'_.

Taking a few bills from her wallet, Hannah made her farewells, blowing a kiss, stating her intent to head back to the Press Room. Duty calls, and all that. Jogging out onto the street and heading for the corner, she pulled out her phone, glancing up and down the street for a cab. Calling her Editor, Hannah asked him to get someone to pull everything on one Max Keenan in addition to the Gravedigger back-story. She'd be there in twenty minutes and explain the rest. Glancing back toward The Diner, she saw Seeley and Temperance leaving, heading over to where the black SUV was parked. She strode ahead of him, almost stalking away; his imploring gestures were made in vain to her stiff back as he spoke. Reaching the tail gate of the SUV she whirled on him, fists clenched at her sides, clearly denying whatever he was ranting at her about - the tension was palpable. He backed off, his hands raised in a gesture of peace, calming her with words, re-entering her personal space cautiously. She nodded slowly in response and his open hand came to rest on her shoulder, reassuring, calming. God, Seeley was great with people.

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Seeing a cab approaching, Hannah stepped off the kerb and raised her hand to wave the driver down. As the cab slowed and stopped beside her, she glanced back to where they were still talking. Temperance looked rattled. The Gravedigger case really must have been a tough one. Opening the rear door of the cab, Hannah hopped into the back seat and told the driver her destination, pulling out her Smartphone that had just pinged with two new messages. Man, the D.C. newsroom team was fast, unlike her Middle East counterparts. What a difference a time zone made. Glancing up to see if Seeley had managed to coax his skittish partner into the SUV, her jaw dropped. The moment in The Diner was just a prelude to what was playing out now as the cab drew away from the kerb.

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His hand brushing her face.

Her face crumbling with emotion.

His resolve tumbling in response.

Her hands finding their way into his.

Their torsos falling forward to meet in the middle.

His hands finding their way around her.

Her resolve tumbling in response.

His face crumbling with emotion.

Her lips brushing his face.

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Just before Hannah reflexively looked away, the scene was snatched from view by the moving cab. Her happily chirping Smartphone was ignored all the way to the office, as she numbly pondered the meaning of what she had seen.

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* * *

The scene of the shooting was a circus. Booth had to park a block away. He and Brennan made their way toward the throng of law enforcement, media and onlookers. The hand resting on her shoulder lowered to her waist when he pulled out his badge. She grabbed his arm as they approached the police blockade. The flashing and whirring of cameras turned toward their progress as they approached the hastily erected white dome that protected the scene from media eyes. Before they reached the heavily policed entry to the crime scene, one of the assembled journalists recognised Brennan and triggered a frenzy of flash photography and spotlights. Questions were hollered from dozens of them, all wanting confirmation that the victim was Taffett, wanting to know why she was there, wanting a piece of Brennan in a sound byte, a comment, a tell-tale reaction for the camera. A young punk cameraman jostled forward, his journalist partner pushed through opportunistically, grabbing on to the arm of the Anthropologist to make her stop and answer his question. It was a mistake on his part, he realised, as he experienced excruciating pain in his elbow and forearm via the fingers in her grasp, blocking, bending and twisting him, until he was on his knees. The media went wild, their attention off the gruesome shooting to focus on some gratuitous violence at the expense of a fellow journalist. The affronted journalist stood up and took two steps toward Brennan before he ran into the fist of Seeley Booth, being propelled backwards into the crowd. Police jumped into the fray from behind the now besieged partners and dragged them into the relative sanctuary of the white dome.

* * *

The dramatic scenes of the altercation began playing out on the bank of thirty screens in the newsroom, emblazoned with Breaking News banners, just as Hannah Burley arrived at work. Temperance Brennan clearly didn't need any help when it came to self-defense. The woman could handle herself and appeared fearless in the footage, her cold stare and sneer of contempt making an eloquent statement - she was not to be messed with. Watching the cameras capturing Seeley, she saw concern, fear and admiration crossing his features, which rapidly turned to anger when the journalist didn't get the message and came back for more. He stepped in. He didn't need to. He didn't have to. But he did. Temperance would have some interesting Anthropological explanation for his actions to her own satisfaction, but Hannah wasn't sure it would pass her own personal muster.

Hannah Burley experienced a cold moment of doubt about her relationship, feeling a sudden urge to seek validation that she was the one, a need to recount the reasons why Seeley said he loved her, why she loved him. Her Editor tugged on the sleeve of her jacket, telling her to get her award-winning ass to the editing suite. They had a story to run and the deadline wasn't going to wait for her.

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* * *

Hours later, the scene was processed, Max Keenan was being quietly tracked down as a person of interest, and a story was about to run on the network news that would turn up the volume.

Booth and Brennan were back at the Jeffersonian, where the team prepared to work through the night to get the cloying scent of the Gravedigger's remains out of their lives. Booth had almost flattened his cell phone battery fielding calls from the FBI, who were fielding calls from other agencies. Brennan had worked tirelessly to get the skull reconstruction underway, with a small and efficient group of squinterns cleaning, photographing, tagging, scanning and collating the bloody shards. It was now going on ten p.m. and Wendell had been volunteered to organise a pizza delivery to sustain the squints through the next few punishing hours. Booth headed over to grab some slices, four for him, two for Bones, who had retreated to the relative quiet of her office around eight p.m. with adhesive, a tray of bone fragments and a pot of tissue markers.

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Only the stand lamps were burning in her office, the glow around the couch a soft spotlight indicating the place where she was. Balancing pizza slices, Booth used his shoulder to push open the glass door. On the table next to the couch, sat on a foam bottomed tray, was Taffett's skull, tissue markers in place. On the couch next to the table sprawled the half-seated unconscious form of Dr. Temperance Brennan, her hair still damp from a shower, her body taking the time that it demanded to sleep, when she could work no more.

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Placing the pizza slices on the lamp table beside the couch, he sat down beside her, hoping that she would awaken. He was disappointed when she didn't stir, not realising the extent of her recent overwork. Taking a slice of pepperoni pizza, he folded it and stuffed it his mouth as he manipulated his feet to flick off his shoes. Glancing at the empty eye sockets of the newly reconstructed skull, the pizza suddenly didn't taste so good anymore. A stripy toe appeared above the surface of the table, nudging one corner of the tray, to rotate the eyeless gaze away from him. Chewing the remainder of his slice mechanically, he swallowed, checking if Bones had seen him moving the tray with his foot. She had a sixth sense when it came to people messing with her work. When he observed that she was still sound asleep, Seeley Booth grinned to himself, celebrating that his ass had survived to be kicked another day. Taking the small throw cushion that was jamming into his lumbar spine; he placed it next to his thigh and eased Bones down from her awkward position so that she could sleep more comfortably. The fact that she barely stirred, bore testament to the extent of her exhaustion.

Booth considered another slice of pepperoni pizza, but the sight of the hole in the parietal bone of the newly glued skull of Heather Taffett, put him off. His blood ran cold in recognition. There was no way that Max Keenan had killed Taffett. This was the work of a professional sniper. Booth mused he would have taken that shot under the right circumstances; a target exiting a van, surrounded by guards expecting attack from above, in front, or behind. Leaving the flanks of the procession exposed. Statistically, there weren't too many snipers who would have the skill, or the balls, to make that shot; he knew, he counted himself among them. Grabbing his cell phone, he decided to call in his discovery to the SAC on the shooting, the FBI could divert resources away from the dead end of Max Keenan. Whoever this sniper was, they were good. The cell phone died within two seconds of him hitting the green key to connect his call, he cursed, employing a Ranger phrase that was particularly unsavoury. If Bones were awake she would have required a translation, plus an introduction to the alleged sexual proclivity of insurgents with camels, before she would be able to laugh about his potty mouth. He hissed a sigh of frustration, he didn't want to get up and wake his partner to go and use a land line. A smile crossed his face as he got a better idea. Reaching over the curve of Brennan's hip, he slipped a hand into the pocket of her lab coat to extract her cell phone. She gave a small shiver and curled up a little as he pulled his hand away with his prize. Before he made the call, Booth flipped the blanket down from the back of the couch and covered her, receiving a twitch of a smile in response as he pulled it around her shoulders.

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Feeling another presence before he heard it, Booth turned his head to see Hannah standing a few feet inside the door. He placed a finger to his lips, indicating that Brennan was not to be disturbed before he asked his girlfriend in a low voice if she wanted a slice of pizza. Hannah grinned and took a slice as Booth winked at her, before turning his attention to Brennan's Smartphone. The unlock code for the device was of course no match for Seeley Booth, he was dialing the FBI switchboard to be patched through to the SAC before you could say phalanges.

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Hannah wandered around the perimeter of Brennan's office looking at artifacts on the shelves, chewing at her lukewarm pizza slice absently and waiting for Seeley to finish his call. She wanted to ask him about the Gravedigger. Putting together the story this afternoon she had received a few more nasty shocks on top of her initial ones. Knowing now, that not only had the Gravedigger been a sadistic, twisted, serial killer; she had left behind survivors. Her boyfriend, his partner, their friend Jack. Reading the transcripts and affidavits from the original trial, Seeley had saved Temperance from certain death. Which explained why Max Keenan had an axe to grind with the Gravedigger. They hadn't mentioned that 'Max' was her father, or that he was a shadowy badass of the highest order. No wonder then, that when Seeley had been kidnapped, Temperance had repaid the favour, almost single-handedly driving the search and rescue mission, barely arriving in time to avoid the massive explosion that would have killed him. It could have killed them both. She glanced over at the sleeping woman, who looked so peaceful, asleep on his lap. In the light of the history that she had discovered today, Hannah realised that Temperance Brennan was a true partner, an even match in sheer guts and determination to Seeley; she had even saved her life, just like he had done. She was a perfect match.

Recalling a project that she had worked on in her Graduate studies about the influence of druidism on gaming culture, Hannah recognised a pattern in this scenario that underpinned the druid ancestral belief system, which she found much more fascinating than the diluted version found in modern Dungeons and Dragons. In this lifetime, Temperance was the Wizard, Seeley was the Warrior, and she was the Thief. She could only cause trouble here in D.C.; she had told Seeley as much. In this lifetime, Temperance Brennan was his soulmate.

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Her attention was brought back into sharp focus, as she heard the name Max Keenan spoken. Seeley was telling the FBI to drop the line of inquiry. The bullet that had snuffed the life of Heather Taffett came from the gun of a sniper. A sniper as good as Seeley, maybe better. Hannah knew he was among the best. What she didn't know was how he was going to react to seeing Max Keenan on the ten o'clock news. Her Editor had made the facile leap that Keenan was out for revenge on the psycho who buried his daughter underground and left her to die. Slapping her award-winning ass, the Editor had told her to go home and celebrate with her man, she deserved the rest of the night off. Hannah revised that assessment now, she had screwed up, big time; she deserved what was coming to her.

Dr. Camille Saroyan entered the office, wringing her hands, as Booth finished his phone call. She had just found out about Max being wanted by the FBI from the news feed playing out on the forensics platform. Cam wanted to know if Dr. Brennan was okay. Booth was puzzled as to how she would know about the FBI, it was an early line of inquiry, more to rule out the old crook than string him up for the crime. Brennan had agreed that it was the best course of action. So why was it all over the news? Two pairs of dark brown eyes turned to look at Hannah Burley, as Brennan slept on.

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* * *

The dream was back, of course. But this time it was a little different, Brennan was at the scene of the crime as it happened.

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Brennan slammed the trunk of her Mercedes Coupe onto the blonde head as her victim attempted to escape; crushing her skull.

Brennan strangled the victim with Booth's dog tags; placing a copy of her best-selling novel into her lifeless hand, before rolling the weighted corpse off the side of the boat, into the pond.

Brennan dug a shallow garden grave for her victim, after bludgeoning her to death with a Bakerlite telephone. The rotary mechanism was ruined, there was no hope that it would ever work again.

Brennan stood back watching her victim burning on a rooftop, her Misericord jammed into the brainstem via her external auditory canal.

Brennan tied her victim to an anchor with blood-red tape, before releasing the winch mechanism that lowered the body into the scummy water of the marina.

Brennan placed a timed explosive in the engine bay of the '_Temperance'_, in Aruba, before boarding a first class flight back to the States.

Brennan threw her victim into the trunk of a silver Aston Martin, leaving it abandoned in an alley.

Brennan viciously jammed a Brainy Smurf figurine into the airway of her victim, before turning the key that made the stands fold in upon themselves; her echoing steps across the gymnasium were accompanied by the staccato pops of breaking bones.

Brennan casually tossed a spare hard-boiled egg into the air as the World's Largest Meatloaf, complete with her victim, began to bake in the industrial oven.

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* * *

Temperance Brennan awoke with a start, to the sound of raised voices. Fighting against her blanket for a moment, she shook her head feeling a little nauseous, attempting to clear her head of the horrific dream. Cam and Booth were looking at Hannah like they wanted to kill her. Brennan considered an irrational desire to pinch herself, because it was just plain weird.

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Cam strode over to the TV set near her desk and turned it on, placing a defiant hand on her hip and waving the other at the screen. Exhibit A: The ten o'clock news was accusing Max Keenan of murdering the Gravedigger. When she saw the guilty expression on Hannah Burley's face, it didn't take a genius to work out what had transpired. Even then, Brennan 'was' a genius, so she would have worked it out anyway.

Reassessing the situation, Brennan withdrew her desire to pinch herself, deciding to join the ranks of the supremely pissed-off instead.

Hannah tried to apologise. She tried to explain, to reason, to ask forgiveness. Offering retractions to the stony faced Anthropologist was completely ineffective. None of it worked. Brennan stood, removed her lab coat, grabbed her keys and phone, walking out of her office before she said something that she might regret in front of her boss, Booth, and the woman she had called a friend. Unable to stand the hurt expression on Booth's face any longer and gutted at being betrayed in her own House of Reason, she decided to go home. She could try to get in touch with her Dad, who had no doubt gone to ground as soon as the news hit. It was a great shame, because she really needed to talk to someone right now.

* * *

Sitting in her Prius in the Jeffersonian parking garage with the doors shut, Brennan felt a little calmer. Still mad enough to punch someone though. The shell of the vehicle provided an extra layer of protection around the suffering within her sarcophagus. A single tear attempted to escaped, but she swiped at it ruthlessly. This wasn't then worst betrayal that she had faced, just the latest. Closing her eyes for a moment as she gripped at the steering wheel, Brennan took a couple of calming breaths before being rudely interrupted by tapping on the window.

The plea to just talk was summarily ignored. Following a single hurt glance at Hannah, Brennan locked the doors of the Prius. There was no way she was going to get close to Hannah again, she'd betrayed the whole family and was no longer welcome. Booth would have to make a choice if he chose to forgive, because she would not forget.

Spying Booth approaching, Brennan started the engine and put the vehicle in drive and released the brake. Pulling out of the parking bay she slowly pulled away and around the corner, heading for the exit ramp. As the Prius doubled back on its path to take her home, she saw Booth stood with Hannah. His hurt expression in her office had been just a prelude to what was playing out now as her car drove away.

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His hand rubbing his face.

Her face crumbling with emotion.

His resolve hardening in response.

Her hands pushing away from his.

Their torsos turning away leaving nothing in the middle.

His hands presenting a barrier to her.

Her resolve hardening in response.

His face crumbling with emotion.

Her lips saying goodbye.

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Brennan was thankful that her vehicle entered the ramp, truncating the view of what she knew was going to be a painful moment for Booth. When it came to relationships, she was much more experienced than he; when it came to the break-up part anyway.

* * *

It was a day and a half before she saw Booth again. Letting the Lab know she would be working at home, Brennan slept for twenty hours straight and awoke feeling more human. There were multiple messages on her answering machine. Two from Cam, five from Angela, one from Sweets, five from Hannah, and two from her Dad. They told her everything that she needed to know. Booth was okay. Hannah was headed to Botswana. Max was in good spirits; on one hand, wanting to take the credit for killing the Gravedigger, on the other hand, considering taking up Caroline Julian's offer of suing the pants off a certain media group. Angela was fine, reassuring her friend that Hannah and all other palindromes had been eliminated from her list of baby names. Cam wanted her to take some time off, and to call Booth. The messages from Hannah were deleted.

Following a further eight hours of sleep, Brennan awoke with a smile. She had dreamt of mummies and bones and ancient remains; scary dreams for some, but comforting dreams of her first love for her. Putting on a pot of coffee, she booted up her laptop and was tying her hair back out of the way when there was a knock at the door. Booth, of course.

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Opening the door, he stood there holding up a bag of something which promised to be calorific and delicious. Smelling the aroma of coffee, he complimented her excellent timing and the fact that it would complement his offering perfectly. Just like they complemented each other; what a difference a syllable makes.

Placing the bag on the kitchen counter, he turned to face her and they blurted out the same question simultaneously. Each of them selflessly wanting to know if the other was okay. They both shrugged in response and smiled at the fact that they were mirroring each other. Brennan found that she would like to hug him, if that was okay, of course. He smiled at her hesitancy and pulled her into a guy hug. He had thought that she would never ask. The seal on the sarcophagus breached. They stood in their classic limbo embrace for some time, the sound of the dripping percolator and the aroma of coffee filling the silence. Even if there was nothing left between them, they had coffee, right?

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Curling up comfortably on opposite ends of her couch, they drank coffee, ate comforting food, and provided comforting companionship. He wanted to talk. She wanted to listen. He needed to be heard. She needed to hear it. As he spoke of his pain and regrets, the soul in the sarcophagus released, as she was no longer able to contain the depth and breadth and height of her feelings for him in her empathetic response. She held out a hand to him, reassuring that she would always be there - and he took it with a grip that promised the same.

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There were things that Brennan didn't want to hear, like the messages that Hannah had left for her. But the Universe has a strange way of telling you what you need to know, so Booth told her. Hannah didn't leave because she made a mistake. She left because she knew. Seeing them together at The Diner, out of the window of a moving cab, on a TV screen; she knew. Hannah's grandparents had been together for 58 years, their connection was the same. Instinctive, fierce, deep; abiding on physical and emotional planes. Booth told her Hannah's theory of the Wizard, the Warrior and the Thief; with the realisation that she had arrived too late in this lifetime to be anything more than a thief of the life that they should have together.

Brennan didn't say anything, but she moved over to the centre of the couch and simply lay her head on his shoulder. There was also a small envelope that Booth handed to her, with a very personal message for Temperance Brennan from Hannah. It told her that one day, when she was ready; she should seriously consider having a sexual relationship with Seeley Booth. He came highly recommended, and life was too darned short to keep putting it off.

Brennan smiled.

Booth wanted to know what it said, of course. The look that he gave Brennan told her that he knew. The look that he got from Brennan in return said that she knew too. Not today. Not tomorrow. But someday, soon.

FIN


End file.
